Consumed By Your Presence
by RedSmileyFace
Summary: It takes Sandor a little longer to defect from the Lannisters. It takes Sansa a little longer to escape King's Landing. Eventually, these things still do happen. Post Battle of Blackwater Bay alternate timeline.
1. Sansa's Wedding

**Author's Notes: This story, despite my preference to finish a story before posting, is not done. But it is part of a challenge, so I felt the need to start posting. The challenge was for me to write an "unresolved sexual tension" story (while I challenged another to do a "quick" one). Because I do not know how this story will end yet, it will stay with the "T" rating for now. Also, it will follow a weekly posting, so I (hopefully) don't fall behind.  
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**Hope it is enjoyed, and reviews are awesome and greatly appreciated!  
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"As I am the father of the realm," King Joffrey speaks, "I will walk you down the aisle." He smirks, pleased as a peacock, asking Sansa what she thinks of that. She stares at him blankly, her mind equally void of emotion, automatically and satisfactorily replying to him. Only briefly do her eyes flicker to the guard standing behind the King, finding strength from his height and breadth, before maneuvering to accept King Joffrey's proffered arm.

She had seen the Hound looking at her, as he was wont to do. It used to disgust her, make her shake in fear and embarrassment, especially as his eyes normally blaze in anger (of reasons she knows not of). Now, after the fires of battle had receded and the threat of King Stannis is no more, she finds Sandor Clegane a source of comfort. And not as a blanket on a cold winter's night, but as a shield weight that assures its wearer, they are protected.

(Though Sansa had once held a shield, and dropped it in a rather undignified manner due to its weight, causing her siblings to laugh in good fun; a shield is all she can think of when thinking of Sandor. She reflects, the more one holds a shield, the more it would meld into one's arm. The more she knows of Sandor...)

On the night of the Battle of Blackwater Bay, after the ringing of the King's victorious bells, the Hound had come pounding on Sansa's door. Still fearful of him then, she had not opened or unbarred her door, standing upright before it (though he could not see her) and had demanded he desist his dreadful manner. He had drunkenly laughed at her, and told her, yet again, of his wish for a song.

"When you deserve it." she coldly replied, only later regretting her harsh words. He laughed some more, cursing at her and asking her what had he been doing all night, but fighting for her? "Fuck the city." He had said. "Fuck the Imp, and fuck the King." He lowered his voice, though she could still hear through the thick oak door. "Fuck the fire; I did it for you, Little Bird."

After a few moments of silence, she heard a thump, and could only conclude he had fallen to the floor just outside her rooms. She remained standing, stunned and confused.

It was during the hours of that night that she had reevaluated everything in their interactions. She had always thanked him for his protection and kindness for individual events (and had always received acrid remarks in return), but had never really thought about his deeds all together. That night, she thought that perhaps he did deserve a song of thanks from her, and she blushed in shame. Vulgar, course, scarred; she had only ever addressed the Hound, and not the man, when it was obvious (should anyone pay attention) the man is more honorable than any knight in the realm.

She walked to the door, and touched it with her fingertips. "You won't hurt me." She whispers, revelation stunning her, yet relieving as well.

Despite the fact that Sandor could not have possibly heard her, he still said something that sounded like a response, "I won't hurt you, Little Bird."

The next day, others in the castle gossiped that Sandor had gone to Sansa with his blood up, with intentions of raping her. It did not help that he awoke with a vicious hangover, and therefore, a vicious attitude. She says nothing to those rumors, letting the Hound keep his crude mask as she does her own docile one. She knows that while he may have wanted her physically, he also came to her to make sure no other blooded man would violate her either. His feet were not the only ones to pass by her door (as most frighteningly those of Ser Trant) , but Sandor's were the only ones to stay.

He had awoken foul, but Sansa awoke refreshed, invigorated with a new found sense of protection, and recognizing an honorable friend that had always been there...

Cersei had smirked at Sansa, a way of her saying "I told you so.": a slice of cake, indeed. It was worse than Joffrey's cruel naivety, asking her how she would have felt had there been no bar on her door. ("So afraid, your grace." she replied.) But once Joffrey turns his head, she shyly smiles in Sandor's direction, and while he looks mildly surprised, he also slightly inclines his head towards her (they are in public after all).

There had been no words necessary, but it was in that moment that their friendship stuck true.

Tywin had been cold and calculating on the matter, on the verge of punishing the Hound for daring to sniff after that which isn't his. Sansa is still a pawn, after all: the key to the north if things went their way, and the Lannisters so wanted a foot in the snow. While King Joffrey became betrothed to a non-traitorous woman to cement a rich new alliance, the Lannisters still had bachelors within their ranks.

So here they are, bringing Sansa to marry the Imp.

Joffrey takes the stool meant for Tyrion away, and she feels frustration and embarrassment emanating from the dwarf. _He does not have to marry me! _Sansa thinks. Looking towards Sandor, she also thinks, _He cannot help me; maybe Tyrion is equally tied by something I cannot know. _While Tyrion may not be her choice for a husband, he is the one who will vow to protect her. Perhaps, in his own stunted way, marrying Sansa was Tyrion's way of protecting her. As much as she distrusts any Lannister, she knows that Tyrion is a better choice than Joffrey, and should enlist any help from him, no matter how small. Even Sandor's mere presence, while seemingly not doing anything, is a balm to Sansa...

When Tyrion goes to place his cloak on her, Sansa kneels without being prompted, though she finds her eyes drifting towards Sandor.

He stands behind the king. Joffrey wanted to observe Sansa's reactions, so had stood off to the side of his uncle, every now and then laughing and commenting about the farce they're witnessing, despite the solemnity of the Sept, or the cold glare of his grandfather. Sansa ignores it all in favor of watching Sandor.

He eyes her back, furious. He wants her for himself, she can tell, and it is made worse that they're giving her to the Imp, of all people. She does not know why he hates Tyrion so, but she stares back, letting him know she feels the same. Not that he should be the one behind her, cloaking her, no maybe not that; but anger that she's being given away, still a pawn, still with no choice.

Sandor grounds her in this farce of a wedding. The only one who would not pity her, who would not laugh at her, who would, if given the chance, make it better for her. He can't, but the thought of it makes her breath easier.

When it is time for the exchange of vows, she looks towards her husband as he speaks his part. When it is her turn, however, she looks directly at Sandor, who had shuffled a bit to be right over Tyrion's shoulder from her vantage point. Everyone in the Sept is looking at Sansa, so no one sees Sandor gazing at her with such steel and stone as she recites her vows.

She is not vowing to him as she looks at him; no, she looks to soothe his irritation, and to gain strength from his presence. So long as he is near, she can make it through whatever the lions decide to throw at her.

She kisses Tyrion with eyes closed, having only wormy lips to compare to, and ultimately just wondering what the Hound might taste like.


	2. Sansa's Bedding

**Author's Notes: Thank you all for the reviews/follows. I'm so humbled and amazed, and I hope the rest continues to be enjoyed! Fair warning, I will be taking liberties with the history between Sandor and Tyrion, which is first hinted at in this chapter; so be prepared for possibly non-cannon characterizations in future chaps.**

**To the one guest reviewer (and anyone else who likes Tyrion): I love Tyrion myself, and I'm glad to say he's a bit of a major character in this story. Though this is NOT a triangle love story, and Tyrion really does end up with the short stick :(. **

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"I'll geld you!" Tyrion threatens his nephew while pushing his chair back, punctuating his statement by thrusting his dagger into the table. Joffrey is momentarily stunned to silence, but before he or anyone else has a chance to do or say anything, Sandor shoves his way through to grab the hilt within Tyrion's hand, and forces the blade from the wood. Placing his free hand upon Tyrion's shoulder, he pushes the dwarf, none to gently, to the chair saying, "Sit down before you hurt yourself."

Lord Tywin steps forward to assert authority, and of course Cersei looks murderous, but Sandor cares not for any strutting, rather choosing to grab at Sansa's waist, and crushing her to him. The Lannisters all still, waiting to see what their faithful retainer will do. Still looking to Tyrion, Sandor quips, "After all, this is supposed to be a joyful occasion." He sounds far from cheerful, though. "I'll take your lovely new wife to your chambers." He starts to turn away, before glancing at the drunken groom again, "Don't lose your balance finding the way to your rooms."

A hesitant laugh ripples through the stunned silence; even Joffrey manages a small titter at his Hound's words, finding joy again at teasing his uncle by telling the ladies to attend the groom, smirking as his favorite "pet" manhandles the bride.

Tyrion continues to glare, but says nothing. Sandor hands the dagger to a frowning Lord Tywin, before using both hands to lift Sansa over his shoulder, his chainmail digging into her ribs. One hand lands on her ass, the other grasps her ankle, his warmth radiating through her silk stocking. She squeals indignantly, at once wishing Tyrion had been more effective of protecting her from the "bedding". The hall erupts in laughter at her embarrassment, and she wonders if proper bedding wouldn't have been better after all...

As they leave the feast, though, she knows Sandor was only trying to help her escape both Joffrey's cruel hands and Tyrion's damaging words, and she feels shame at losing her trust in him so quickly. No sooner then she thinks this, Sandor gently places her on her feet again and then escorts her to her rooms as any honorable man would: her hand gently held in the crook of his elbow.

Glancing at his face, she sees his jaw working, his brow low and foreboding. Still, she knows the anger is not directed at her, but for her. "Thank you." she whispers.

He says nothing, but nods once to let her know he heard and acknowledged.

They reach the rooms for the bedding, Tyrion's rooms in fact, and stop before the door. Sandor seems to be steeling himself for a moment, before brusquely opening it and gesturing Sansa inside.

Turning to face him, she makes it no farther than his throat, before she trembles, the weight of the situation again falling on her in the quiet confines of another man's rooms: her _husband's _rooms. When Sandor's warm and gentle hands fall upon her shoulders, she shudders, eyes closing and tears falling.

"It's alright, Little Bird," he whispers, "he won't hurt you... I'll make sure of it." It's said so softly, but so assuredly, that she cannot help but believe him. Finally looking at his eyes, she nods.

Sandor seems hesitant to let go of her. Far from being annoyed, afraid, or angry, Sansa watches him, feeling a flutter of anticipation. Later, she will wonder at the complete trust she has in him, to both let him touch her, and _want _it back. At the time, caught up in the moment, the fleeting thoughts are that she wishes it was the Hound she was married to instead of the Imp; if she had had the option to choose between monsters in the dark.

His eyes fall to her neckline, following his hands as they take a life of their own, tracing Sansa's smooth neck, finding her pulse and tracing the hollow at the throat. His hand is gentle, though the mere idea that he could engulf her, and strangle, but does not in favor of adoring her instead, is confusing but poignant to her. He could hurt her more than anyone else in the keep, yet does the polar opposite... she shudders in wonder.

Her collarbone, and the swell of her breasts, they are also traced. He hesitates at a hitch in her breath, but continues when she says or does nothing to stop him. Gently, as if he had intimate moments with ladies all the time, he starts unlacing her bodice. Never once do his hands falter, nor do his eyes fall away from his task. The last tie undone, though, he looks back to Sansa's face. Seeing her trusting and willing, he again palms her shoulders. "Little Bird has grown fond of me, hasn't she?"

Sansa nods, acknowledging his gaze as fervently as she had once shied away from it. At last, he slowly caresses her arms, bringing the shoulders of her dress down along, though his gaze stays glued to hers, her trust more wonderful then her beauty, for now.

The weight of the material eventually brings the dress all the way down, and Sansa is left in her shift, silk stockings, garters, and her dainty slippers. The moments stretch long, and Sandor has to see her in her splendor. Seeing his face go slack with desire, Sansa fights the impulse to cover her chest, instead somewhat gratified at his reaction; being able to bring the Hound to heel is a heady feeling.

But it's also worrying; she does not want to betray his friendship by mocking his feelings. Sansa cannot desire him back that way, but still she could give something to assure him of her need for him. She raises her own hands to place on his chest, over the chain mail that has absorbed his heat and digs into her palms comfortingly.

Relishing his heat and steady presence, she can only hope Tyrion is equally warm and comforting, but doubts it. Grabbing at the neckline, she pulls him closer, wanting more of his protection wrapped around her.

He doesn't disappoint, grabbing her waist in turn, and bringing her the rest of the way. At once she feels his hardness against her, and gasps. He does not stay still, running his hands up and down her sides as if to chase a chill away. She is not cold, but it does help to chase her fears away, fears of the impending bedding, and of Sandor's own fierce lusts.

He buries his face in her neck, inhaling her scent and daring to kiss and lick at her neck as well. Far from complaining, she swoons over his masculine scent and falls willingly into his strong arms: wondering how far she would let him go, if given the chance; surprised at the feelings of _want_ coursing through her, from _him _of all people!

Soon enough however, they can hear faint laughter down the hall. Obviously, Tyrion's procession is taking longer, and is following a proper bedding sequence. Both well aware that what they are doing would be frowned upon, they still their movements.

Swiftly, Sandor pulls back from Sansa, but before she can pout too much, leans down to capture her lips in a kiss.

Surprised, she opens her mouth in a squeak, which he takes advantage of and thrusts his tongue in. It is far more absorbing then Tyrion's kiss, and she knows now that Tyrion can never compare to Sandor. Tyrion was more careful, hesitant, tasted more of wine then of man, whereas Sandor is the reverse: demanding, consuming, hot, and purely masculine, the alcohol only feeding the frenzy. Moaning at the sensations rolling through her, throwing caution out the wind due to the seconds dwindling away, she sucks at his tongue daringly, at once biting him in show of affection, acceptance of his desire and wish for it to continue.

He growls his approval, before releasing her and stepping away. His eyes show his reluctance, and even a bit of anger at the situation. She stares at him, returning her own disappointment, before the door opens and she lowers her eyes demurely and shyly, hugging her arms around her chest.

Turning around, Sandor glares at the now disheveled dwarf. Far from being intimidated, the nearly unclothed dwarf just throws a quip out, something along the lines of thanking Clegane sarcastically for taking care of _his _wife, all of which Sansa ignores in favor of staring at the floor.

Sandor's reply, however, cannot be ignored. "You owe me." he rasps towards Tyrion.

Tyrion says nothing, just becomes serious as if noticing Sandor for the first time. When Tyrion finally nods his agreement to whatever it is that is between them, Sandor stalks out of the room. It leaves Sansa confused, and it takes her husband a few tries to get her attention again.

Though, to her immense relief, it is just to assure her he will never take her against her will, even if she never wanted him.


	3. Tyrion's Solo

**Author's Notes: I missed last week... oops... and it's a short chapter too. Sorry! The next chapter will be longer, and soonish in coming. That said, I really like Tyrion, and I hope this chapter is still enjoyed!**

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"Your brothers are all dead now." Tyrion had told his young wife. "Your mother and your oldest brother have fallen, brutally murdered while attending your uncle's wedding at the Twins." He had finished. She said nothing, her impeccable mask as cold as ever, even after he had pleaded that she trusts him, her _husband_. She had only thanked him; _thanked _him, of all things! Polite as ever, gratitude for the news of her family, as if they were all fine and he was telling her they had changed from summer sheets to winter... He repeated the sad news, thinking she might have misheard or misunderstood, yet all she had done was ask to be alone.

Tyrion can now hear Sansa through the door as she cries; cries as loudly as trapped ladies could cry. Her mask has fallen away, and she is freely giving in to her emotions. But not in front of him: not with her husband as a confidant or comforter. No, the dog, Clegane, takes that lucky position.

Tyrion touches the door to his and Sansa's, rooms; not really knowing why, but thinking it would be the closest he ever gets to touching her in comfort. Being on the other side of the door, away and unnoticed, but granting her her peace, just shy of actively pushing the door open with his hand...

She is beautiful, his wife Sansa: cute, naive, endearing, and he admires her brand of courage: it is what calls him, her innocent strength. And he can not deny having a physical affection for her, for no hot blooded man could deny her beauty... but having had a few senights to reflect now, he knows it is not marital love that blossoms in his heart, but familial affection. She has taken the role of a dependent, and he has never quite had someone depend on him for protection. While she does not look towards him for such, per say, she has not turned him outright either.

Subtleties are one of Tyrion's gifts, and he knows that, subtly, Sansa prefers him, _might _even like him, more then most anyone else at the Keep at the moment. He knows that she knows he can protect her (to the best of his abilities), and will not violate her. She trusts him, as far as she can trust _any _Lannister.

The only one she trusts more, the only one who can do better then her own husband, is Clegane.

Tyrion hangs his head in anguish, placing that on the door as well. How their roles have reversed, his and Clegane's. It used to be that he, Tyrion, had the affection of someone worth something to Sandor. Tyrion, having done very little to earn Clegane's trust in the first place, had made it worse when he lost that which they both loved. If loved for different reasons...

Every now and then, Tryion can hear Sandor's murmuring through the thick oak door, but he cannot hear what is said. It is just as well, Tyrion would probably cringe and think about what he would say, and how better he would sound then what the Hound was butchering with that grating and brutally honest voice. However, it is not how and what the words being used that endears Clegane to Sansa, it is his actions. _When_ she had finally realized to look for the solid wall of action, as opposed to the winded words, Tyrion does not know, but he is glad she has learned to look beyond the superficial.

He just wished it had been he, instead of Clegane, who had earned her whole trust. After all, Tyrion _had _protected her once or twice, stopped the beatings and the berating, and _had_ placed her under his care, as Hand to the King and later as a husband...

Others in the castle might have gossiped, if they knew the Hound was in Sansa's presence alone, consoling her, no doubt holding her in his arms. Thank the gods no one knows, or they might have sneered and besmirched not only Sansa, but himself as well, the cuckolded husband. Tyrion himself might have had a snide word or ten for Sandor, but he alone knows the affection between his wife and his family's retainer. He knew it the instant Clegane had told him that he owed him; Sandor had never come to collect Tyrion's due before.

That wasn't the only instance of Sandor caring for Sansa that Tyrion recalls. He remembers a throne room incident that involved Sansa's torn gown and Sandor's stained cloak. That Sandor had saved Sansa from the riots because Sandor wanted to, not from any order. And he notices that Sandor stares at Sansa every chance he gets, and was far better at hiding his attentions then Tyrion would think Sandor was capable of. There is a real chance for Sandor to protect, even save, Sansa; should the Hound stay true the way of the Warrior, and not fall back to the Stranger.

For Sansa is good for Sandor's health, Tyrion wryly thinks. The dog rarely fucked bitches anymore, nor lapped up more alcohol then was seemingly. Tyrion knows Sandor is getting thanks from Sansa in some form, and is amazed that such innocent words and kind attentions (for he knows her virtue is still intact) are enough to tame the crude beast.

Reflecting some more, Tyrion finds that he is happy to pay his debt to Clegane. Was it anything else, he might have been furious, threatened, or insulted, but with Sansa's protection... He alone can tell how each is good for the other, and is happy that he can be a sort of champion for them, making sure they have this quiet time, without anyone the wiser.

So, he guesses he did console Sansa, in quite the round about way. He waddles away from their rooms, thinking about the strong Starks, and cringing at their misfortunes as of late.


	4. Joffrey's Wedding

**Author's Notes: Of the chapters in existence for this story so far, this is my least favorite. It might be because it was a b*** to write, or maybe I'm justified in my moaning and groaning over this. Can I get some support? Or some insights to make it better? I might rewrite this before the story is "complete".**

**From this point on, we have passed season three of GoT, and are headed into book territory. Spoilers might happen, though obviously my interpretations have different outcomes then in the books. **

**Thanks for reviews! Even if I forget to personally reply from time to time (especially to the guest reviewers). :) **

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"An amethyst has come loose," Lady Olena Tyrell comments, gesturing to Sansa's hairnet of precious purple stones, "Let me fix it for you." And so she does. If Sansa had known what was to come from that simple and seemingly kind gesture, she would have... well, she does not know what she would have done. At once wishing it had been successful, at another instance thinking it could have made things worse. She can only thank the gods, old and new, that Sandor was around, no matter the outcome.

It had been an enjoyable evening, as far as evenings could go in the Red Keep, married to one Lannister and treated like dung by three others. Despite that, the food was good (if not an extravagant waste, she couldn't help but think of the riots), and the dancing was a wonderful distraction.

Sansa was a true lady that night. Despite Joffrey's horrid insinuations of taking her behind Tyrion's back, and Tyrion's own drunkenness and foolishness: Sansa permitted herself a modicum of happiness. She refused to let things stand in the way of her greeting people politely, and being received kindly in turn. Tyrion praised her honest, and kind, words towards his cousin, the wounded Lancel. Lord Garlan, the Gallant, Tyrell was a true gentleman upon the dance floor, and an inspirational loving husband towards his lady wife. And when Sansa gossiped with Lady Margaery Tyrell, it was as if Jeyne Poole were standing next to her again. She laughed, and was happy for a time.

Every now and then, she'd look in the direction of Sandor, and grace him with a smile. He never smiled back, but he always met her eyes. She wished she could dance with him, feel his warm hands soothe her, and feel his strength uphold her. Alas, not only did Sandor not like to dance (that she could tell), but he was on duty as well: armored, against the wall near the dais, observant and dangerous.

If she could have Sandor near her, perhaps the increasingly drunk Tyrion would not embarrass her so, she might have avoided being anywhere near Joffrey's cruelty towards his uncle, or Tyrion's scathing comments that only made things worse... unfortunately, when dinner arrived, she had to sit there, so close to both and so far from any comfort.

Then Joffrey was to drink of his wine. Before he could bring the chalice to his wormy lips, however, Sandor had knocked it out his hands, once again coming out the shadows when he was needed. The ringing silence that follows is only broken by a dog moving forward to drink at the spilled wine.

"It is poisoned, your grace." Sandor offers after a short pause.

Lord Tywin stands, asserting his presence, "And how do you know that, Clegane?"

Sandor stares back, unfazed, "The coloring, my lord. It was different then the other cups of wine."

Tywin wants to ask more, but then they are all distracted by the dog, the one drinking the spilled contents, suddenly wining and hacking, like a cat choking on a hairball. Silence, except for the dog, reigns again.

When the poor beast finally stops writhing, falling piteously to the floor, Cersei rushes forward and embraces Joffrey to her, dislodging the new Queen Margery from her spot at the dais. Margery herself looks more confused then stunned, should anyone look. Cersei's eyes are blazing elsewhere, however, and she focuses her fury upon her younger brother. "You! How dare you threaten the king!"

Tyrion barely has a chance to open his mouth before Cersei yells for the guards to grab the imp. And, though Tyrion does not resist (for what could he do?) pandemonium breaks out in the hall.

Sansa herself is rooted to her spot, frozen, scared and unsure of what to make of the situation. And though the dog had died by poison, the wine and blood on the floor penetrate her imagination as she stares at the unfortunate four legged soul, to offer her a vision of Lady; innocent but sacrificed.

Though the sounds and the visions of the commotion do not reach her, a hand comes out of the craziness to snare her, dragging her out of the hall. It yells at her that now is the time to escape, though she barely registers such, still in a fog of confusion.

When she finally trips on a step, though, everything comes rushing back. The man dragging her is Dontos. Though he glances at her briefly to make sure she didn't fall as well as trip, he turns his wild eyes forward again, muttering about failed plans, but hoping the boat is still there...

"What are you doing!?" Sansa finally asks.

"Don't worry, my lady." He says with a waiver in his tone, "I'm taking you away from the city, you'll be free, we'll be free!"

She hesitates only a moment, thinking of the dead dog, and thinking of Sandor, before rushing forward again. Her mind is so frayed, so worried about what the Lannisters would punish her with for this (though she had done nothing), that any option to flee the Keep would be gladly followed, even one as offered by the fool. It has to work. It _has_ to.

They make it as far as the sand on the beach, a little row boat visible even in the darkness to her accustomed eyes, before the thunder of hooves break their little silence of harsh breaths and swishing clothes.

It is Sandor upon his hell horse, Stranger. Sansa and her would-be rescuer both gasp, though for different reasons. Dontos immediately starts moaning in worry and fear, a cadence of "no... no... no.." breaking through his lips.

Fear also strikes through Sansa, though only because she has never seen such an impressive display from Sandor directed at her! When he and Stranger reach them, they rear up, Stranger neighing his fury and showcasing his majesty. Sandor is equally impressive, tall, wide, furious, and wielding his bastard sword.

A third man is coming from the boat, getting his own sword out, but the fool has been immobile since Sandor's appearance. The Hound wastes no more time or even thinks to asks questions, just uses the forward motion of Stranger to hack down, severing life from Dontos' being.

Sansa screams at the brutal display, shuddering as the fool's warm blood sprays on her. But Sandor only gallops on to face the other man who was to have helped her, meeting the unknown with sword upon shield. She stands rooted to the spot, shivering in the cold night and the cruel visions, eyes morbidly watching the lifeblood of Dontos staining the sand, as Ser Hugh's had once stained the tournament grounds.

She had tried to be impassive with Hugh's death, and she feels shame and wanting to feel coldness towards a stranger who had done her no ill will. Here, now, was a man who had tried to get her away from the city, and she feels... what?

As the clangs of swords and shields ring in the background, she wonders at why she doesn't cry over Dontos. She always felt repulsed by him, his greedy hands and disgusting lips. The only thing going for him was his promise to get her away from the Keep.

Away from Sandor.

Tears finally fall from her eyes, though not for the fool, but for her protector and shield. What would Dontos have done to protect her once away from the Red Keep? Get drunk and fondle her some more? He didn't even pretend at defending her against Sandor.

Truly regretting ever trusting the fool, Sansa turns towards Sandor just as he defeats the unknown man, knocking him unconscious (though still alive).

Sandor, off of Stranger's back, rushes to Sansa and crushes her to him, falling to the sand in some sort of relief.

"How did you know where to follow?" She whispers into his neck.

He pulls back, hands grasping her shoulders harshly, and answers her question with his own; "What the _fuck_ were you thinking? Stupid bird, how could you trust that fool? Like as not, he'd use you for some gain, and then where would you be? Huh!? Raped, dead in a ditch somewhere!"

Surprised at his outburst, though she should not have been, she cowers a little before his fury, mumbling that she had thought to escape, to which he just scoffs at.

A multitude of emotions and thoughts swirling around, not helped by seeing two deaths that day. Brutal, gruesome, innocent deaths, and she was so close to freedom. And Sandor, her friend and protector, stood here and yelled at her, eyes blazing in renewed anger. He had prevented her escape (questionable though it might have been) and is now hurting her.

She tells him so, and he finally releases her bruising shoulders. He abruptly places her up on Stranger, seats himself before her, and takes them back to the Keep, where she would find that a bunch of soldiers had been sent out to search for her. Had Sandor not chosen his path, she and Dontos might have escaped...

But... Sandor was here, her true protector, no matter his role in this moment; she has to remind herself that he is still a better man then another.

Grabbing at him from behind, finding purchase wherever his armor had grooves, she holds onto him and cries. He is the only one to see and hear, who would not use it against her, and he is the stone from which she can crash upon; he is here to let her truly be herself. Had she gone with the fool, how much more of "Sansa" would have been lost?

He whispers into the night, though she can barely hear as he didn't turn towards her. He says he is sorry, that he should have let her escape. He says sorry one last time, before they arrive at the Keep, soldiers milling about them.

Sandor tells them that traitors are to be found at the shore. A Ser Marbrand commands that Sansa be taken to her rooms, that the dungeon was no place for a lady and, besides, she could not put up much of a fight (like Arya had embarrassingly done).

When they finally reach her (and Tyrion's) rooms, she sinks gratefully to a chaise, and lets her cool exterior fall away once again. She does not look towards Sandor, instead staring blankly at nothing in particular, but asks him, "What will happen now?"

For a while he says nothing. He is not still though; she hears him move to close her door, and then bar it. While he paces a few times, no doubt gathering his thoughts, she realizes that she should not expect Tyrion's presence this night. For the first time since leaving the feast, she thinks upon her husband, and how he had been grabbed by the guards. No doubt he was in a cell right now, perhaps pacing as Sandor is.

She also recalls the look of stunned surprise on Tyrion's face; she knows her husband a little better then before, enough to know that while he plays the game quite admirably, using masks is not his forte, so she has little reason to believe he was faking his surprise, and even less belief that he had something to do with plotting Joffrey's murder.

And then, another startling thought hits her: would they think she was her husband's accomplice? Ser Marbrand had already confined her to her rooms. She moans in fear, in dread, in misery over how bad this night is, and how much worse it keeps getting, hour after hour. "Will they condemn me, too?" she asks.

"NO!" Sandor all but shouts. He sits next to Sansa, pulling her close. "No." he says more calmly.

"But," she refutes, "I ran from the hall. They will think it was to escape being accused..."

"They would have if you had been successful in escaping." He interrupts her. "Now, though, I can attest to how the fool tried to use the confusion to grab at you. Though he is dead, the other man, from the boat, he can, _will_, corroborate that you had nothing to do with poisoning Joffrey."

"But..." And then he kisses her. No doubt to shut her up, but it works. Thoughts of murderous plans, Tyrion, and being so close to escaping fly out of her head, being replaced by Sandor's all-consuming presence. He seems desperate for the distraction as well, leaning into her as if to swallow her being into his, afraid she would be gone in a puff of smoke if he did not take measures to hold on to her...

Her breasts are smashed against his breastplate, and his hips dig into hers rather uncomfortably, but his mouth, as before, is hot and comforting. His hands are bruising upon her waist, but it grounds her as much as it hurts, a pain more physical and real then the ones in her mind and heart, so she accepts it.

Her hands reach for his face, grabbing each side of him. She caresses him there as he lays a trail of fire along her jawline and neck, sucking from time to time. Gasping, she arches into him some more, falling backwards to lay upon her chaise. He looms over her, armor and all, a solid wall of metal and muscle keeping the rest of the world at bay.

Her hands never leave his face, drawn there like a magnet, smoothing his scars and threading a hand through his oily hair. His hands, though, leave a trail of goosebumps up and down her sides, igniting a heat when he grabs her thighs, and opens them. She has never been so exposed like that, not even on her wedding night did she spread her legs, and she whimpers. Her hands fall to his shoulders, anchoring herself to him as surprise and lust race through her, while worry and fear pound in her head. He is not the man for her...

He kisses her again, and a little of the worry recedes. He is there for her, will always be there she thinks.

The hem of her skirts become atrociously high though; she has never entertained being an unfaithful wife before, even of such an unattractive man, and she is only fourteen still; too young to worry of such things, yet being thrust into adulthood rather unfairly and abruptly. She is a good lady, and wants to be a good wife to a childhood dream of an honorable and handsome lord... so many things have lately made her wishes seem like nightmares.

She is unsure of how to proceed. "I'm sorry." She whispers. Either Sandor does not hear, or is too far gone to care, but all he does is thrust his hips against her, crashing breeches against her womanhood and thighs. Though they are covered, it gives little protection against such an assault of the senses. Shocked and aroused, she fears the abyss she was not ready to contemplate, let alone go through with. "No!" She says, pushing at his shoulders now, "Stop!" she repeats, stronger and with an air of command.

"I'm sorry." she says again, once Sandor stops moving. After a moment of stillness from Sandor, he abruptly disentangles himself from her, standing and looking at Sansa in contriteness. He says nothing, unsure of what to say, and Sansa thinks is that he is disappointed in her. Gods, she was disappointed in herself! She turns from him, hiding her shame within her arms.

Joffrey was almost murdered, Tyrion was imprisoned, her fool was slain, a chance for escape (no matter how questionable it may have been) was lost, and Sandor, her rock and shield, had become a little too heavy to bear at the moment. He had only tried to comfort her (and himself) with his ardor, she knew even then, but it had been too much, too hard, too fast; and not at all what she needed after the events of that night. She buried her head in her arms, and shook.

"Little bird... " He says, sounding unsure, "I..." Then silence.

Soon she feels a blanket falling on her, a warm hand gently squeezing her shoulder, a grating voice stating, "You have no reason to apologize to me, my lady."

She only turned towards him again after she heard him walk out the door, afraid of his disappearance almost as much as she wishes to be free of her worries. However, she did not hear him walk away from the door. She turns again towards her room, unsure of just what she is supposed to feel at this moment, and steels herself for a sleepless night.


End file.
